


You Brought the Sunlight

by michii1213 (BuckytheDucky)



Series: Semicolon Project [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/michii1213
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel will never forget about the street fair that his friends dragged him to. After all, he has the tattoo to prove the night even happened. But when he figures out what the simple design means, he's pushed into action. He doesn't expect much, but he knows he won't rest until the tattooist knows that the ink means more than words could ever say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Touched

Castiel sat in the backseat of Meg’s Jeep, the dark of the world outside the windows deepening as they drove further away from the street fair. Soon, only the occasional slip of a streetlamp filtered over his face. Meg and Charlie were talking quietly in the front seats; Castiel stared down at his phone. The screen dimmed then turned black, and he unlocked the device just for the process to repeat. The number on his hand had smudged slightly through the rest of the evening’s activities, but the digits were still legible enough to make out. Biting his lip, he made his decision. His thumb tapped at the screen lightly as he typed in the numbers. His brain stumbled when he thought of what name he should assign to the number. Nothing seemed appropriate enough to put in, especially as he knew nothing of the person who’d written it on his palm. In the end, he simply put a semicolon in the **Name** box. He saved the data and scrolled through the meagre amount of contacts that he had. There were only seven numbers – now eight – the latest of which wasn’t even a name so much as a punctuation mark. _;  Anna  Charlie  Father  Gabriel  Meg  Mother  Pamela Barnes_. He locked his phone and unbuckled his belt when Meg slowed to a stop outside of his apartment. Castiel allowed Charlie to lean out of her window to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Call me later, okay?”

“Of course. Goodnight, Charlie. Goodnight, Meg.”

“’Night, Clarence.”

Meg flashed him a sharp smile and pulled away from the sidewalk where he stood, still and watching the vehicle until it rounded the corner and disappeared from view. With a sigh, he made his way up the sidewalk and into the lobby of the building he’d been living in since that morning two years prior. He honestly missed living next door to Mr Jones, the elderly man who had treated Castiel like family the entire time they were neighbours – back when Eli had been an integral part of Castiel’s life. He unlocked the front door of his apartment, letting the chilly silence of the flat envelop him once he stepped inside. The bland eggshell-white walls were adorned with paintings he had done, as Pamela had instructed him to do. He’d fought long and hard against the implication that he needed to waste time on something he had no joy in doing; she had insisted, and he ended up actually enjoyed himself. His art had started out as dark, angry, violent streaks against even darker backgrounds. Slowly, through the months of twice-weekly therapy, the paintings became less and less about the deep well he’d been buried in, and more and more of times with Charlie and Meg, the scenery and laughter and sunshine that nearly blinded him. As he went down the hall, his eyes took in the photographs in their silver frames, spread in seemingly random patterns on the walls. His room was barren of anything more than a bed, dresser, nightstand, and small bookshelf overflowing with tattered books with cracked spines and yellowing, dog-eared pages. Everything but the books had been new – or at least, new to him. Meg and Charlie had tossed out everything he’d in what they called the “faux honeymoon stage”, while he was in the hospital. His temper had snapped when he’d found out what his friends had done. Meg had smacked him across the face for making Charlie cry. Once they explained why they’d done it, he had apologised profusely to Charlie and gave in to their demands of dragging him to every Goodwill and thrift store in town to replenish his furniture. It had been a great day, and he’d realised just how much he’d missed spending time with the women.

He collapsed into his bed without bothering to change his clothes. It had been a long night, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep. Unfortunately, the pain in his wrist stopped him. He sighed, leaned up, and yanked on the cord to the bedside lamp. Light diffused through the room, and he blinked away the bright spots suddenly clouding his vision. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and opened his internet browser, typing _how to care for tattoo_  in the Google search bar. Once he gathered as much information as possible, he padded out to the kitchen to grab a baggie and some ice. He cleaned the plastic bag with hot water and antibacterial soap, rinsing it completely clean, then stuffed it full of the frozen cubes. The relief was immediate: He breathed a sigh as the throbbing ceased. He twisted his arm so that the baggie of ice would stay on his wrist and dug through the cabinets until he found the half-empty bottle of ibuprofen laying on its side in the back corner. He dry-swallowed three before making his way back to his bedroom. A groan escaped him as he sank into the comfort of his pillow-top mattress. His phone was still on the pillow where he’d let it fall before he’d left the bed. He plucked it up and unlocked the screen. His teeth worried his lower lip as he debated whether to send a text message to the stranger who’d given him such a beautiful tattoo. Before he could make up his mind, his eyes slipped closed and didn’t open again until morning.

Sunday passed quickly, and Monday dawned, warm and bright, before Castiel knew it. He turned the coffeepot on in the kitchen and made his way down the hall to the bathroom, dropping articles of clothing along the way. He wasted no time in the shower; he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped into his bedroom. He stared at the clothes hanging in the closet, felt a rush of annoyance at seeing the same shirts and pants that he saw everyday. With a sigh, he grabbed a cherry-red T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He dressed without any thought, slipped a pair of clean socks onto his feet, and headed back to his kitchen at the incessant beep of the coffeemaker as it finished its brew. Steam curled up into his face when he poured the hot, dark liquid into his travel mug. The clock on the microwave told Castiel he had less than twenty minutes to get to work.

His boss was already standing by the front door of the greenhouse when Castiel pulled up out front. “Morning, Cas!”

“Morning, Don. How are you today?”

“The usual. Got quite a few trees going out this afternoon. You sure that hunk of junk can handle it?”

“My truck is not a ‘hunk of junk’. It’s held up so far.”

“Ah, I’m just yankin’ your chain. C’mon in. The chrysanthemums aren’t gonna repot themselves.”

As the hours passed, Castiel lost himself in the feel of the dirt on his hands, the sun beating through the thick glass onto his exposed neck as he knelt beside the long boxes, the thick of the air as it captured and held on to the heat from the overhead star. The smell of fresh soil and sweet decay mingled in his nose; sweat trickled beneath the collar of his shirt, and he swiped at his face with the back of his gloved hand. He rose to his feet, stretching his arms toward the sky, relishing in the multitude of small _crack_ s that ran up his tense spine. Once he felt loosened up enough, he hauled the half-full bag of soil onto his shoulder and lugged it to the shed in the corner of the greenhouse. The sound of someone tapping on the glass caught his attention; he looked around to see Don beckoning him outside. Castiel nodded and hurriedly shut the door to the small enclosure, before he made his way through the long aisles of plants to meet up with his boss in the warm early-summer sunshine.

“Ms Harvelle wants a couple apple trees taken to her farm, then Billie needs a couple more bags of fertiliser. Her old man took the truck out of town – showing horses in the next county over – so I told her you wouldn’t mind dropping them off to her.”

“No problem.”

They loaded up Castiel’s Ford with four young trees, at least three years old, with burlap bags tied around the roots to hold in the wet dirt. Don lifted two bags of fertiliser into the cab of the truck, and Castiel gave a small wave to his boss, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the truck. The engine roared loudly, causing Don to jump. Castiel had been working at the nursery for almost two years; the fact that Castiel’s loud pickup still managed to startle the older man was a bright source of entertainment. Castiel dropped off the fertiliser to Billie, a black woman just a few years older than he was, her dark brown hair in tight, natural curls. She pursed her lips with a disappointed glint in her eyes when he declined her offer for a cup of coffee and banana bread, but he managed to pull out of her driveway without much of a fight from her. He double-checked the address Don had written down for him; Ms Harvelle’s farm was on the outskirts of town. He sighed and relaxed in his seat. It was going to be thirty minutes, if not more, before he arrived. By the time the truck came to a stop at the end of a long, rutted driveway, a woman – presumably Ms Harvelle – was standing outside of the large farmhouse, a slender hand held up to block her eyes from the sun’s harsh rays. Her faded jeans, already covered in dirt, were tucked into a pair of heavy-duty work boots, and the sleeves of her navy blue-plaid shirt were rolled up to her elbows.

“Ms Harvelle?”

“Ellen. You must be the one Don sent with my trees.”

“Yes. I’m Castiel. You wanted four apples?”

“Yessir.”

He was slightly surprised when Ellen walked confidently to the bed of the truck, dropped the tailgate, and gently pulled one of the trees from its place. They worked in silence, removing the trees and placing them on a trailer attached to a tractor. Ellen smiled and disappeared into the house. When she returned, she had a battered leather wallet in one hand, the other plucking out a few twenties.

“Would you like some help putting the trees into the ground before they dry up?”

She paused, cocking her head. “That’d be nice. Hop on.”

She shoved the wallet into her back pocket, climbing astride the tractor, and Castiel sat on the trailer next to the trees. The wood beneath his rear vibrated and lurched as Ellen drove them out to a small pasture about thirty yards from the house. A shovel was already sticking up from the ground, the curved blade embedded into the ground. She made quick work of digging the proper holes for the trees; Castiel almost asked if she’d done it before but realised that she probably had. There was a line of trees, some fruit-bearing, others simply for shade, that surrounded the area. As soon as the last tree was in the ground, roots covered by wet soil, he twisted his abdomen until he felt something in his back pop. Ellen wiped her forehead on her arm, glancing up at the sun’s position in the sky.

“Want a glass of iced tea ‘fore you leave?”

“I would love some.”

Castiel took a seat on the trailer, his hand gripping the rail, as Ellen started the tractor once more. The breeze was warm against his face, and he could smell wildflowers from the empty field not far from where they were. When the engine shut off, he clambered off the wooden trailer and followed her inside. The interior of the farmhouse was clean and rustic. His eyes took in the row of pictures hanging on the walls, a large pot of what looked like chili simmering on the stove, one side of the sink full of dishes drying in a rack. Ellen crossed the kitchen and passed him a glass with large sunflowers painted on the side. He murmured a ‘Thanks’, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of the cold tea. The brew was strong, slightly sweetened, and tasted of sunshine. No words were spoken between the two of them as they drank. Finally, he set the cup in the sink, turned to face Ellen, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you, Ellen. I’m afraid I have to get back to work now.”

“’Course. Well, you ever wanna help around here, I can always use it. Tell Don I’ll probably be ‘round next week to see what else he might have that I might need.”

“Of course. Thank you for the tea.”

“Oh, don’t forget this.” She handed him the cash owed. “See ya ‘round, Castiel.”

“Bye, Ellen.”

The drive back to the nursery was quiet, except for music playing low on the radio. He lost himself in the words of some Western country song about throwing horseshoes over a left shoulder, four-leaf clovers and rainbows, music that God made, and the way love goes. He pulled into the lot and twisted the key in the ignition. Silence pressed against his ears momentarily. He noticed Don’s own SUV was gone from the lot. Castiel sighed and slid out of the cab, slamming the door behind him, knowing if he didn’t, the door would just swing open again. Perhaps his boss was right about Castiel needing a new truck.

“Excuse me?”

Castiel turned at the tentative voice. “Yes?”

“Do you work here?”

“I do. What can I help you with?”

“I was wondering if you perhaps had marigolds? My neighbour just underwent surgery, so I wanted to get her something bright for her hospital room.”

“Of course. Right this way.”

Once the bright yellow and orange flowers were chosen, the woman followed Castiel to the register in the main building. He was ringing up her purchases when she spoke.

“That’s a lovely tattoo. What does it mean?”

“Huh?” He glanced down at his exposed right wrist. “Oh, that. I’m not entirely sure. I got it at the street fair, the ‘surprise tattoo’ booth.”

“Oh, I remember seeing that! I didn’t have the nerve enough to actually go through with it, though. I’m glad you did. It’s beautiful.”

“I agree. Thank you. Have a great day, ma’am.”

The woman left, and Castiel glanced around. There was a Post-It note stuck to the corkboard on the wall: _C – be back by 4:30. JM called pitching a fit, so had to run & take care of that. – D _Castiel laughed lightly. Of course Jack Montgomery would have a problem with the raspberry bush Don had put in his yard two days previous. The main building was one that Castiel hardly ever entered for longer than it took to punch his time-card. He was always more at home in the greenhouse, surrounded by dirt and plants and bugs. He shook his head and leaned against the counter. His mind replayed the conversation with the woman who’d bought the marigolds. What _did_ the tattoo mean? Castiel made a mental note to Google it when he got home. Don entered the building with a loud clatter, the wind-chimes over the door swinging wildly. His normally calm face was ruddy with frustration; his hair was a mess, and there was a gash in his jeans that was tinged with crimson.

“Let me guess. It was a beautiful day at the Montgomery place.”

“Shut up, Castiel. Go home.”

Though his words were sharp, Castiel knew better than to take it seriously, especially when there was a small glimmer of humour in the older man’s eyes. Castiel merely clocked out, waved at Don, and made a hasty retreat from the nursery. His apartment was cool when he stepped through over the threshold. He pushed the door closed behind him, twisting the lock out of habit, and headed toward the bathroom. He shed his clothes while the water warmed up. He wanted nothing more than to take his time, but he knew he needed to get groceries and make a quick dinner before his mother called.

It was almost nine-thirty by the time he ended the call with his parents. His life hardly changed, but they still phoned him every Monday night, like clockwork. He missed them terribly; he wanted to visit them, see them face-to-face. However, he wasn’t quite at that point yet. With a sigh, he opened his browser on his phone and typed in “semicolon tattoo”.

 **_Project Semicolon_ ** _was born from a social media movement in 2013. They describe themselves as a “movement dedicated to presenting hope and love to those who are struggling with depression, suicide, addiction, and self-injury. Project Semicolon exists to encourage, love, and inspire.” But why a semicolon?_

_“A semicolon is used when an author could’ve chosen to end their sentence, but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life.”_

Castiel blinked back tears. No wonder Charlie had nearly cried when she’d seen the ink. He stared down at the simple black semicolon and beautiful black wings. There was no way he ever would have imagined something so nondescript having such a huge impact on him. He exited out of the browser and pulled up the messaging app. He couldn’t convey just how much the tattoo, and the thought behind it, meant to him, so he simply put two overused words.

 **_(21:54)_ ** _Thank you._

 When ten minutes went by without a response, he went to his bedroom, put his phone on vibrate and put it on its charger, and stripped down to his boxers. His comforter surrounded him, and he fell asleep quickly. The last thing he would remember in the morning was thinking about how he wished he could meet the tattooist who’d given him such an amazing gift. 


	2. Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple 'thank you.' That's all he wanted to say.

When the obnoxious buzzing of the alarm blared the next morning, Castiel fought against consciousness. The dream-world he was in was far more pleasant than reality. He could feel the details of the fantasy slipping away, though he hadn’t opened his eyes. All he was able to remember was the feeling of being completely safe and a strong sense of security, like angel’s wings wrapping around him to protect him from the dark recesses of his mind. He groaned and slapped a hand against the top of the annoying digital clock on the nightstand. A heavy sigh escaped him as he struggled to sit up; the comforter had managed to swathe itself around his sleeping body, and his awake-self had to fight to disentangle his legs from the bundle. With that done, he shuffled to the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, yawning and stretching the entire way. The gurgling from his coffeepot filled the small room as soon as he pressed the **Brew** button. Castiel didn’t bother with a shower that morning, having taken one the evening before, so he stood watch over the percolator until the last drop hit the pot and the noises ceased. He quickly poured the liquid caffeine into a mug and added a splash of milk and two spoons of sugar. He decided to forego the ‘waiting until the coffee was cool enough to sip’ stage, wincing as the scalding drink made its way to his stomach.

His phone’s LED was flashing by the time he got back to his room to dress for work. He scooped up the device, input his PIN on the lock screen, and waited until the messaging app loaded up.

 **; (07:01):** _You’re welcome?_

 **You (08:17):** _I’m sorry. I just realised I never told you who I am. My name is Castiel._  
_You did a semicolon and wings tattoo on my wrist on Friday night. I looked up_  
_the meaning and wanted to tell you thank you._

He sat with his phone in his hand, wondering if he was going to get a response. Ten minutes passed before he rose to his feet and hurriedly got dressed. Don was an easy-going guy, but that had no bearing whatsoever on how he’d react if Castiel showed up late to work. The only time Castiel had witnessed someone arriving late, Don had taken the employee to the back office, and the worker had left thirty minutes later and not come back. According to Don, Jake had been late multiple times before, but Castiel had made it a point to show up at least ten minutes early every shift.

His boss was nowhere in sight when Castiel pulled up outside of the main building. He slid out of the driver’s seat of his truck and headed inside. Don’s rather bad singing met his ears immediately; Castiel weaved through the piles of gardening equipment and boxes of seeds, to find Don sorting through a wooden crate half-full of paper packages that rattled as he moved them. Castiel leaned against the doorframe of the stockroom and laughed lightly when Don gave an exaggerated shake of his hips.

“Don’t judge me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Castiel gestured to the box. “Need help?”

“Sure, just splitting this shipment up into piles by item. Apparently, ‘items will shift during transit’ really means ‘good luck getting everything to stay in one place so it’s not a huge mess when you open the crate.’ I don’t see why they never use some sort of divider in between the different bunches.”

“That would be logical,” retorted Castiel, separating daffodils from magnolias.

“Too true.”

They managed to sort every package into separate piles; Don motioned for Castiel to head out to the greenhouse and do what needed to be done. Castiel unlocked the door to the first glass building, stepping into the steamy heat. He checked the soil in the plants along the window ledges before moving on to the larger vegetation down the middle of the building. Once done, he propped the door open slightly and walked to the next greenhouse. He spent half an hour at each of the four buildings, making sure the plants were properly watered and pruned. He glanced up and saw a dirt-covered Chevy truck pulling into the lot. His brow furrowed; he’d never seen the vehicle before. He wiped his hands on his jeans, rose to his feet, and walked out of the last greenhouse.

“Can you handle the place for a bit, Castiel? I gotta run to the next town over for an hour.”

Castiel nodded, watching Don climb into the passenger seat of the truck. The fact that Don was leaving in the middle of the day wasn’t much of a shock – being the owner of a nursery called for unexpected absences. The fact that he was leaving in the middle of the day with no concrete instructions for Castiel... That was definitely different. He didn’t mind, though. Knowing Don had enough faith in his abilities to keep everything running smoothly was a boost for Castiel’s self-esteem. He double-checked the list of deliveries for the day, seeing only one for later that afternoon, and grabbed his bag of lunch from the mini-fridge in Don’s office. He pushed the pile of papers to the side and leaned against the counter. The sandwich was slightly limp from having been made four hours previous; he took a bite, chewing the ham and cheese carefully, as his eyes roamed over the landscape outside the big windows. Cars passed in steady intervals, and he had a sudden desire to be one of them, his truck in between the lines of the highway, tires eating up the miles with no destination in mind. He felt a vibration from his jeans pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

 **; (12:12):** _Oh. Didn’t think u would actually text_

 **You (12:13):** _Why is that?_

 **; (12:13):** _Cuz its been 3 days_

 **You (12:13):** _Oh... A customer asked me about the tattoo_  
_yesterday, and I realised I didn't know, so I looked it up  
__online last night, and I wanted to thank you for it._

 **; (12:15):** _No problem. Im glad it means something to you_

 **You (12:15):** _It really does, even if I didn’t know it._

 **You (12:18):** _So, tell me if this is unwelcome, but... Would_  
_you mind if I got your name? Currently, your name is ; in  
__my phone._

 **; (12:18):** _Dean._

 **You (12:19):** _Castiel._

 **; (12:19):** _I know. I heard your friend the other night when_  
_she said you were taking it like a boss_.

 **You (12:20):** _Oh. I suppose Charlie did say it rather  
loudly._

**; (12:21):** _Yea, she did._

**; (12:22):** _Alright. I gotta get back to  
_ _work. Talk to ya later._

 **You (12:23):** _Of course. Have a good day, Dean._

Castiel pushed his phone back into his pocket and smiled to himself. _Dean._ A strong name. With a shake of his head, he finished his sandwich and apple, tossed the bag into the recycling bin, and walked outside. The sun was hot overhead, and the fresh air was invigorating, clean. The silence was suddenly filled with a loud roar; he glanced up to see the truck from earlier pulling into the lot. He waved at Don before going back to the greenhouses.

 

 **Dean (17:39):** _Whats up?_

 **You (17:47):** _I just got home from work. What  
_ _about yourself?_

 **Dean (17:47):** _Finishing up cooking dinner for Sam and Jess_  
_before they go home. Lazy bums are just watching my damn_  
_TV while I do all the work._

 **You (17:48):** _To be fair, cooking doesn’t seem like much fun._

 **Dean (17:50):** _You wound me, Cas. How can you not like cooking??_

 **You (17:52):** _I just don’t. I do it if I have to, but I get no  
_ _sense of ‘fun’ out of it._

 **Dean (17:52):** _You poor soul. Gotta go. Time to eat._

 **You (17:52):** _Enjoy your meal, Dean._

._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._.

**Tuesday – 22 June**

**Dean (16:02):** _So you mentioned work yesterday. What do u do?_

 **You (17:38):** _I work at Don’s Greens, a  
_ _greenhouse/nursery._

 **You (17:38):** _I actually just got home from there, which  
_ _is why it took so long to respond._

 **Dean (17:40):** _No worries, man. And Ive heard of that place. Fun?_

 **You (17:41):** _I get to play in dirt all day. Of course it’s  
_ _fun. :p_

 **Dean (17:41):** _I get to play under a car all day. My jobs funner._

 **You (17:42):** _I don’t believe ‘funner’ is a word, Dean._

 **Dean (17:55):** _It is now._

._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._.

**Wednesday – 23 June**

**You (12:18):** _People are truly, truly idiots._

 **You (12:19):** _How can people be such idiots and  
_ _not know it?_

 **Dean (12:32):** _Im not sure. U would think they wouldve  
had some sort of accident by now that would be a huge sign._

 **You (12:32):** _Apparently, walking face-first into_  
_the front of a truck, falling on their ass, then promptly_  
r _epeating that process isn’t enough. Not to mention_  
_the fact that he’s killed the last five bushes we’ve sold_  
_him because he keeps using pesticides on the weeds around  
_ _the roots of the bushes, which kills them._

 **You (12:32):** _And no amount of telling him he has to stop_  
_doing that, will get him to actually stop doing that. I just_  
_want to slap him upside the back of his head and call him a  
_ _damn moron._

 **Dean (12:49):** _Don’t do it. Don might fire u._

 **You (12:51):** _Not sure that would be so bad, at the moment..._

 **Dean (12:21):** _It would be. Now get back to work, slacker._

._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._.

**Thursday – 24 June**

**Dean (21:55):** _U still awake?_

 **You (21:57):** _Barely. Why?_

 **Dean (21:57):** _Never mind. Go to sleep. We can talk tomorrow._

 **You (21:57):** _You’ve already got my attention. Do you need to talk?_

 **Dean (22:00):** _Nah, man._

 **Dean (22:00):** _Night._

 **You (22:02):** _Nohgy. SrN_

 **Dean (23:59):** _Still cant sleep. Shouldve taken u up on ur offer of  
talking. _

**Dean (00:01):** _Night, Cas._

._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._.

**Saturday – 26 June**

**You (20:54):** _So tell me about Sam. You have mentioned him many_ _  
times in the past five days, but all I know is he’s your brother._

 **Dean (20:56):** _Not much to tell. Hes my brother. Hes smart as hell,_  
_hes a lawyer so hes gotta be smart.  His girlfriend is Jess, I think Ive_  
_mentioned her a few times. Shes a nurse at the hospital. Theyve been_  
_together since college. I think hes gonna propose soon._

 **You (20:57):** _You’re proud of him._

 **Dean (20:57):** _Course I am. Hes always been a great kid. He  
deserves nothing but the best ya know?_

 **You (20:58):** _And Jess is the best?_

 **Dean (21:00):** _Hell yes. She puts up with so much shit out of both of  
us. Im honestly shocked she hasnt run before now. Shes perfect for him._

 **You (21:01):** _That’s good. :) I hope things continue being  
_ _good for the both of them – and you._

 **Dean (21:10):** _Thanks, Cas. Appreciate it._

._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._.

Time passed quickly, and soon three weeks passed. Three weeks since he had texted Dean for the first time, and Castiel found himself starting to care. It was probably a bit weird, caring – actually _caring_ – about someone he’d never actually met in person, never held a face-to-face conversation with, but he did. He’d learned about Dean’s life, though a majority of the texts stayed superficial, simple basic information. The most Castiel had learned was that Dean’s mother had died when he was ten, and his father had remarried an amazing woman named Kate, and he had an awesome eight-year-old brother named Adam. Dean liked to cook, spend time with his family – which included family that wasn’t necessarily blood – and work in his uncle’s auto shop. Castiel could tell, just from the words on the screen, that there was unresolved tension between Dean and his father. Dean told Castiel more and more about Sam, until Castiel felt he knew the younger brother, until Castiel cared as much about Sam as he cared about Dean. Though Castiel wanted to call Dean a friend, he wasn’t sure three weeks’ worth of text messages could constitute as such. But the more he learned of the man who’d bestowed upon him a beautiful reminder that he was more than his past, the more Castiel felt his heart making a place for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. There wasn't much happening in this part. But starting with the next one, there will be more going on. I promise.


	3. Unexpected Proposals

Castiel shoved the boxes of Hamburger Helper into the last free space in the cabinet, ignoring Charlie’s exaggerated gagging at the sight of so many processed, powdered meals. She’d been making the same noises during the trip through the grocery store, and though Castiel loved her dearly, he was suddenly feeling the insane urge to find duct tape and wrap the lower half of her face with it. When he sent her a flat stare, she smiled widely, an air of false innocence on her open face, and went to sit at the kitchen table. He snorted quietly, turning back to his task of putting groceries away. He finally fit the last pound of ground beef into the freezer and sat heavily into a chair. Charlie’s eyes were down, focused on the phone in her hands – a phone that looked eerily similar to his. He narrowed his eyes, patted his pocket, then sighed when he realised it _was_ his phone. She tucked her hands closer to her chest as he reached for the device.

“Charlie, give me back my phone.”

“No.” She cocked her head. “Who’s Dean?”

“Get out of my messages, Charlie.”

“No.”

“Char–”

“Oh my gosh, is this the guy who gave you that super-awesome tattoo?” she asked, her eyes skimming over the multitude of texts in the message thread.

“If I answer, will you give me my phone and drop it?”

“Probably not. But you’ll never know unless you tell me.”

“Fine. Yes, Dean is the guy who gave me ‘that super-awesome tattoo.’ So?”

“Yeah, no. Not dropping it. When did he give you his number?”

“He wrote it on my hand before I pulled my arm out of the booth.”

“That’s so cool! Does Meg know?”

“If you didn’t know, what makes you think Meg would?”

“You guys have talked a _lot_ , haven’t you?”

“I suppose. Not necessarily ‘a lot’.”

“Please, Castiel. There’s already almost a hundred texts between you two in the span of three weeks. I think that counts as a significant amount, since our thread only has seven hundred from the past six months.”

“We talk on the phone more than anything. Plus, you’re always here. Why text you if you’re already here?”

“You know what I mean!” cried Charlie, obviously exasperated at his stubbornness. “Seriously, have you met this guy, face-to-face?”

“No, and I don’t really plan on it.”

A red eyebrow lifted. “And why not?”

“Because, he has yet to mention the possibility, which indicates he only wants a few texts here and there. The last thing I want to do is push a friendship onto this poor guy.”

Charlie shook her head but let the subject drop. Castiel rose to his feet to start making dinner. He grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter, the butter and cheese slices out of the fridge, and a butter knife from the drawer. His friend watched his movements as he spread the butter onto each of the eight slices before carrying them to the stove. As the pan heated over the burner, he turned to gaze at Charlie; she hadn’t spoken in more than ten minutes, and her face was a mask of deep thinking. He dug in his pocket, fingers finding the small coin effortlessly. She jumped when he tossed it to her.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“I’m just... Castiel, do you _want_ to meet this Dean guy?”

“Back to this, I see.”

“I’m sorry. I know you asked me to drop it, but I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked quietly, dropping bread onto the pan’s hot surface. “I see no reason as to why you would be unable to drop it.”

“Because! It’s not like you to just be satisfied with a strictly-texting relationship, with _any_ one. You always want to know more, be certain in whoever you’re getting involved with.”

He snorted derisively. “It’s not as if I’m trying to _date_ Dean.”

“You know what I mean, Castiel. Don’t act like you don’t.”

Charlie rose to her feet and leaned against the counter to Castiel’s right. He flipped the sandwich in the frying pan, smiling at the perfect golden-brown hue to the bread, and then set the spatula down on the Formica countertop. His best friend stared at the wall across the room; her brows were furrowed in deep thought. By the time she spoke again, one of the sandwiches was done and the other one sizzling away in the pan.

“I’m not trying to pry – really, I’m not. And if you want, I’ll drop it and never bring it up again.”

“It’s fine, Charl. I promise, I’m not mad. I just don’t feel like this conversation is conducive to anything.”

“I get that. I’ll let it go.”

Castiel carried their plates to the table, Charlie following quietly with a bag of plain potato chips and a jar of dip in her hands. They ate in companionable silence until their sandwiches were gone along with half the bag of Ruffles. He left her sitting in her chair, sipping her water, while he washed the dishes he’d dirtied. When he finished, they made their way to the living room. Charlie dug in her tote bag, stopping only when she brought up a small box. Castiel plopped onto his couch unceremoniously – and rather gracelessly – and watched her pull out the cards she’d nestled inside before she had left her apartment. As Charlie arranged the cards in play-format, Castiel stretched out on the sofa, feeling the kinks in his lower back disappearing with the pull of the muscles. He stared at Charlie with half-closed eyes, and she glanced up after a few moments, apparently feeling his gaze.

“Can I help you?”

“No. I’m just... I’m just still amazed that you’re my best friend.”

“What do you mean by _that_?”

He chuckled softly. “You’re you. I’m me. It doesn’t stand to reason that you would have ever chosen me to be your friend.”

“I didn’t choose you. My heart did.”

“Oh, heavens.” Castiel couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “That was just about the corniest thing I have ever heard you say.”

“You know who says ‘oh, heavens’? Old ladies. Are you an old lady, Castiel?”

“Shut up, Charlie.”

She merely smirked at his retort and continued setting up the cards. Though she was joking, Castiel knew her mind was elsewhere. Instead, he settled himself on the floor by the coffee table, grabbed up his playable cards, and waited for Charlie to start the game. The next hour flew by without them noticing it; they were laughing too hard and talking too much, too loud, to pay attention to the time. Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine o’clock came and went, and the clock struck ten. Charlie packed up the cards while Castiel carried the bowls and spoons to the sink. When he entered the living room again, the first thing he noticed was his best friend’s guilty expression – then his phone laying on the table in front of her.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Charlie...”

She sighed, plucking the device off the table and tossing it to him gently. “See for yourself.”

 

 **You (22:07):** _Would you want to get coffee with me some time?_

 

“Charlie!”

“Sorry! I couldn’t just let it go.”

“Apparently. Why would you do that?”

“Because you absolutely need someone else besides just Meg and me. I mean, c’mon, in the last few weeks that you and this Dean dude have been talking, you’ve seemed more relaxed, almost _happier_. I think he could be a really great friend for you. Besides, aren’t you curious about what he looks like?”

“His appearance has no relevance to whether or not I enjoy talking to him.”

“But you do.”

“Yes, Charlie, I do,” sighed Castiel as he let himself drop onto the couch. “I _do_ enjoy the conversations I have with Dean. They’re short, and they’re rather superficial – nothing more personal than skin-deep, but... They’re great. I actually feel like I’m a normal human being again, which hasn’t happened since Eli left.” He exhaled heavily. “It scares me, if I am to be honest. The last time someone had this much of an effect on my mood, me, whatever... It ended rather poorly, and I’d prefer to not revisit that experience.”

Charlie clambered to her knees quickly, crawling to lean against his let, and her brown eyes searched his blue ones. He didn’t say anything – he didn’t trust his voice to stay steady – but he didn’t need to. She knew all the unspoken words, all the fears he had been harbouring since his relationship with Eli, even through therapy with Pamela. She rested her cheek against his denim-clad thigh, a hand squeezing his shin gently. They sat quietly for a few moments, both engrossed in their own thoughts. Suddenly, a loud buzzing emitted from the phone on the table, causing the cell to bounce across the surface noisily.

 **Dean (22:16):** _Yea that sounds awesome. When and where?_

“Oh. My. God. Castiel! He’s agreeing!”

“I can see that,” quipped Castiel drily, lips pursing as his thoughts ran rampant. “What should I do?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re the one who started this!”

Charlie pinched the flesh of his calf. “Just answer him.”

The clock on the wall ticked seconds away while Castiel thought over his options. He could agree with Charlie’s plan, meet Dean for coffee and get to know him face-to-face, get to know who he was as a person beyond just text messages. Or he could tell Dean the truth – that it was Charlie’s idea, Charlie’s fingers that had typed the message and sent it, that he himself was too scared of _new_ that he couldn’t even agree to a simple coffee. His lower lip caught between his teeth, and a sigh forced itself out of his lungs. He didn’t _want_ to be afraid, but that would always be something he could thank Eli for, the incessant worrying and afraid of when something that seemed so bright and promising would actually turn out to be a pile of horse manure wrapped in tinfoil. It was never a matter of whether or not it would happen, but rather how long after he adjusted his life to the change. It was why he stuck to having only Meg and Charlie as his main friends, his best confidants, while keeping everyone else in his daily life at arms’ length. Though Pamela was his therapist and therefore vested in his success and recovery from the depression, Castiel still maintained a wide berth between them. She was a tremendous help – always listening, offering advice only when he appeared to be at a loss of what to do, suggesting only what she thought could help, never trying to sell him on half-baked attempts – but... Castiel still found her hard to trust, regardless of the fact she had yet to steer him wrong. “Yet” would always be the keyword. To everything in his life.

 _Perhaps it doesn’t have to be that way,_ Castiel thought to himself. So what if he was scared? Dean wasn’t Eli. Nobody besides Eli was Eli. Sure, there would always be people who wanted nothing more than to destroy others. That was just a fact of life. But hiding away from the world, living in a glass bubble to ward off the people he came into contact with, wasn’t healthy. Every therapy session he attended, Pamela made him repeat a phrase, a mantra of “ _The world can be scary, and the people in it can be cruel, but ‘can’ is not ‘is’. ‘Can’ is not definitive. I have nothing to fear from opening up, no matter the outcome, because I am stronger than what tries to break me. I may crack, and I may bend, but I will not break. Not completely.”_ It wasn’t something he’d ever truly believed – except now, he was beginning to. Quickly so as to not lose his nerve, Castiel tapped out a message in response and sent it before he could second-guess himself.

 **You (22:29):** _How about noon on Saturday? Henry’s?_

 **Dean (22:31:** _Got it. Ill meet u there. Night Cas._

“Meg says ‘congratulations on the upcoming nuptials.’” Charlie glanced up at him from her own phone, immediately bursting into laughter at his horrified expression. “She’s kidding. We’re all aware this is just coffee, not a marriage proposal.”

He nodded stiffly and stared down at the screen of the device in his hand. Now that the message was delivered and responded to, he was a bundle of nerves. This could either be the best thing to happen to him in years – or it could be the biggest mistake he’d made since Eli. He wasn’t sure he was quite ready enough to find out which one it would be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the worst. Or, rather, my laptop is. I had this chapter all wrapped up and ready to go last night, but my laptop decided to die, so I lost it all. But now it's up! And the next chapter will be up by Sunday, at latest. I promise!


	4. Whole Again

The coffee shop was nearly full, which made Castiel want to walk right back out onto the sidewalk as soon as he stepped through the door. He swallowed hard, threaded his way through the far corner by the window, and took a seat at the empty two-seater. He stared through the glass to the street and people pushing by, wondering if any of them was who he’d shown up to meet. When the server made her way to him, he ordered only a coffee, black, cream and sugar on the side. She smiled a friendly smile and walked away. He turned his gaze back to the world outside just as a large, glossy-black car passed the window slowly. Castiel could feel his heart in his chest, faster than it should be – he was nervous at the prospect of being in such a crowded place, but even more anxious about meeting Dean. But he had to do this. If not for gaining a new friend, then at least for himself.

He had emailed Pamela the morning after Dean had agreed to coffee, and her response had been supportive and enthusiastic, probably more so than a therapist was supposed to have been: _That’s fantastic, Castiel! I’m so proud of you, even if it WAS Charlie’s idea. Remember: It doesn’t have to be a permanent sort of thing, just something for you to be confident in the fact that you CAN do something new. Be proud of yourself. I am._ He forced her message out of his brain, forced himself to think of anything other than the wave of hazy dark welling inside his chest. Between the hummingbird-wing beats of his heart and hollow feeling behind his sternum, it was proving to be difficult. He gave a trembling smile to the waitress as she set his mug of hot coffee in front of him, along with a plate full of creamer cups and sugar packets. His face felt flushed, sweaty; his arms were heavy weights, impossible to move; his lungs were on fire, an inferno roaring in his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut against the burning of oncoming tears. He wouldn’t cry – not here, not now. With a gasp, he stumbled to his feet, dredged up enough thought process to place a five-dollar bill on the table, and lurched toward the door. His shoulder brushed against someone else’s in the frame of the door, and he barely rasped out an apology before shoving out onto the sidewalk.

The cool breeze stroked his hot skin, soothing the flames under his skin into embers. Castiel leaned against the brick sides of the building to the left of Henry’s, chin to his chest, and sucked in deep breaths. His lungs were tight in his chest, and his throat felt like steel wool with each sharp inhale, glass on the exhales. He shoved a hand into the pocket of his jacket, thumbed off the cap of the orange prescription bottle, and shook out one of the tiny white pills. Half the bottle emptied into the bottom of his pocket, but he ignored them in his endeavour to pluck up one in shaking hands. Castiel popped the circular tablet into his mouth, swallowing it dry, wincing at the bitter taste as the pill made its way into his stomach. He waited on trembling knees for the release to come – for the heavy, black clouds to part, for the blinding haze to ease, for the iron grip on his insides to disappear. He was choking on the smoke from the blaze that was still roaring mightily beneath his ribs.

Finally, _finally_ , Castiel could feel the medication doing its job. He gulped down refreshing breaths of the city air, letting his head tip back to rest against the building. His phone vibrated in his jeans pocket, and he pulled it out. The lock screen showed there was a text message from Dean, with only the words _Im here now_ in the body. He nodded to himself but didn’t move. He wasn’t sure his legs could support him just yet. Once the stinging buzz overtook his limbs, signifying the steady flow of blood once more, he drew in one last steadying breath before making his way back inside Henry’s. The table he’d been sitting at had been cleared off, but it was still blessedly empty. He shot a timid smile to the waitress and sat once more.

“You alright, sugar?”

“Yeah, I-I think I am.”

She raised an eyebrow without comment, her lips pulling up at the corners. “Want a new coffee?”

“That would be much appreciated. Thank you.”

She walked away after tapping the edge of his table gently with her knuckles. He glanced down at the phone still in his hand and typed out a reply to Dean’s text. Before he could press **Send** , the sound of someone clearing their throat met his ears. He jumped in his seat, his gaze flying up to see the person. He wasn’t expecting the sight of a tall, bow-legged man, slightly tanned skin marred – no, not marred; beautifully decorated – with dozens of freckles, a nervous grin tugging at his full lips. A hand was wrapped around the back of his neck, and his spring-grass green eyes were tight with anxiousness. Castiel couldn’t help himself; he knew he was staring rather openly. The man in front of him shifted his weight.

“Uh, Cas?”

Castiel swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Yes. Dean?”

“In the flesh, man. Can I sit?”

“Yes, yeah, of course. How long have you been waiting?”

“Not long,” replied Dean as he dropped into the seat across from Castiel; the ease with which he’d responded gave Castiel pause.

“Dean... Look, I’ll be honest. I was here almost half an hour ago, but I... I had to step out for a bit. So I know it can’t have been ‘not long,’ since the last person I remember walking in here was about two minutes before I walked out.”

“Alright, it’s been about twenty minutes. But I wasn’t in a rush anyway, so whatever.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Here’s your coffee, sugar. And what can I get for you?”

Dean smiled at the waitress. “Just a coffee, black.”

Castiel gazed at Dean, taking in everything about the man’s open face, expressive eyes, and easy smile. There was a surge of shock that _this_ was Dean, the man with whom he’d been conversing through text messages for a month. This wasn’t what Castiel was expecting today. At all. While he had meant what he’d said to Charlie – that Dean’s appearance had no bearing whatsoever on their friendship (if it could even be called that) – there was no way Castiel could deny that the man sitting in front of him was a very attractive man. Dean’s jaw was covered with stubble, as if he hadn’t been able to be bothered with shaving in the past twenty-four hours. A leather cord circled his neck, a golden amulet dangling against his broad chest. His light, golden-brown hair was cropped close to his scalp, just enough length on top to make Castiel’s fingers itch to run through the silky-looking locks. His dark grey Henley was covered with a red flannel, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Dean chuckled, causing Castiel to finally blink.

“Dude, you were staring.”

“I apologise,” mumbled Castiel, his cheeks burning. “Charlie and Meg tell me I do that a lot. Please tell me if I make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s cool, man. I get it. So, uh... Not that I’m complainin’, but why ask to meet up for coffee now? Wanted to make sure I wasn’t a serial killer?”

“I... No, that-that’s not it at all.” He paused with his mug of coffee halfway to his mouth. “Are you?”

“What? A serial killer? Nah, too much work.”

“That’s good to know, I suppose. Anyway, no. I wasn’t even going to ask, but... Look, the truth is, I didn’t ask at all. My friend Charlie sent the text while I was busy, and I went with it, because she made me realise that I actually did want to meet you in, even if I was too scared.”

“Scared?”

“Yes.”

“I understand that. I gotta be honest, I was shocked when you – or rather, Charlie – asked me to meet you for coffee. I didn’t expect it. I mean, we’d been texting for almost a month, and I didn’t think we’d ever actually meet in person.”

“I didn’t think we would, either.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow at Castiel’s mumbled confession. “Well, we’re here now. So, tell me about yourself. Like, stuff you haven’t already told me.”

So the next two hours passed with conversation. Castiel fumbled through the first twenty minutes, stumbling over his words, a sense of stiff awkwardness cloaking him completely. The more he talked, however, the more interested Dean seemed, and the rigidity of tension slowly seeped from Castiel’s shoulders. The waitress only approached their table to refill their coffee mugs silently; her presence never caused a lull in the conversation. Instead, they talked and talked, never once breaking from the bubble they’d created around themselves.

When Dean’s phone rang from his pocket, he grimaced but answered it quickly. Castiel sat back, draining the remaining dredges of coffee from his mug, and let his eyes roam over Dean’s sturdy form. His eyes had lightened and darkened at appropriate times during the past couple of hours’ worth of talking, and his smile had brightened his face more than once, stretching across his angular face and taking Castiel’s breath away. Castiel had wanted to reach out and cage Dean’s hands with his own, when Dean would tap his fingers against the tabletop or his cup while talking, especially when he spoke of his late mother. The grass-green of his eyes had deepened to a dark bottle-green with the pain of her loss; Castiel had never felt such a strong desire to wrap someone in a tight embrace in hopes of fixing their broken pieces back together. He’d almost acted on that urge, until he remembered they were in a crowded coffee shop – and that Dean was still essentially a stranger.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asked once the other man shoved the phone back into his pocket with a scowl on his face.

“Yeah, man. That was just Sammy.”

“Your brother.”

“Yeah, he was wonderin’ where I was, since I’m obviously not at home or at the shop.”

“Do... Do you have to leave?”

Dean heaved a sigh, something similar to uncertainty in his eyes. “I think I do. Still have grocery shopping to do, plus gotta fix up Baby sometime before dinner.”

“Baby?”

“Ah, Cas, you gotta meet Baby.” Dean rose to his feet and tossed a twenty on the table. “C’mon, man.”

Castiel gathered up his jacket and followed Dean out the door. The sidewalk was nearly empty as they made their way down the block. Castiel’s eyes widened when Dean stopped by his car – a large, heavy, sleek, _vintage_ car.

“This is ‘Baby’?”

“Yep! Got her from my dad when I turned eighteen. ‘Course that was _after_ I had to restore her.”

Castiel didn’t know much about cars, but he knew enough to know, “She’s beautiful.”

“Thanks, man. Hey, you need a ride home?”

“Um, no, I’ll be alright. Thanks, anyway.”

“’Kay. Well, I gotta go. If you ever change your mind about wanting a ride, you got my number.”

“Alright. Thank you, Dean. For everything.”

“No problem, Cas. See ya ‘round.”

The grin Dean sent his way made Castiel weak in the knees, but before Castiel could think more on it, Dean was sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the engine with a loud roar. Castiel watched as the car disappeared down the street, before he started making his way back to his apartment. He couldn’t fight the smile tugging at his lips the entire walk home – meeting Dean face-to-face had been better than he ever anticipated, and he knew he’d have to thank Charlie for the unrequested shove in the right direction.

“So how’d it go?”

“Yes, Clarence, when will we be hearing wedding bells?”

Castiel rolled his eyes at the fact his friends hadn’t waited even thirty seconds after he stepped inside  his apartment to question him, but nothing dimmed the smile on his face. “No wedding bells. But... It went well. Better than well, actually.”

“You gonna do it again?” Meg asked without glancing up from her magazine.

“You know, I think I will.”

He didn’t miss the way the two women exchanged shocked glances; he just found he really didn’t care. His heart was still flying high in his chest, and for once, he wasn’t worried about _when_ or _if_ this would go to Hell in a handbasket. He was too content to take it as it came. And if that wasn’t progress, then, well, what was?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end of this portion. Don't worry - I'll definitely be visiting this 'verse again. I just wanted to get my other story finished sometime in the next million years, and at least give a skeleton to another story that's been brewing in my brain for almost a year. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, because - while it's been difficult to actually push myself to write it (even though, let's face it, it was only four chapters; there's no reason it should've been so hard), I am really happy with how it turned out. 
> 
> Thank you again, for your time.


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